Boy Toy (36 page)

“It’s someone in the theater group who may have had a vendetta against Jason—in other words, a
motive
for murder. Now I know she also had the
means
to extract mushroom toxins, the apparent murder weapon.”

Formhals arched his brows. “You’re getting close then.”

I frowned, idly flapping my notepad, as if expecting answers to spill from its pages. “What I don’t know—at least not yet—is whether she had the
opportunity
to poison Jason.”

Thad was despondent at dinner, so I offered to drive him to the midweek pickup rehearsal. In truth, I’d been scheming since my afternoon meeting with the coroner, trying to come up with an excuse to go to the theater that evening, so Thad’s mood proved opportune. Pushing food around his plate, he accepted my offer with a listless “Whatever.”

Driving downtown a few minutes before seven, I asked Thad, in the guise of idle conversation, “Fly agaric—ever heard of it?”

With a sour grin, he asked back, “You mean,
before
this morning’s news?”

“Yeah. I had no idea that honest-to-God poisonous mushrooms were growing in the wild around here. Did you learn about them in school?”

“Well,
sure
.” He turned to me, showing a bit of life, a spark of genuine interest. “We cover the bad mushrooms with the good in Fungus Amongus—that’s the whole point of the club.”

“Makes sense, I guess. Fly agaric—it even
sounds
nasty. Are they ugly?”

“Not at all. In fact, fly agaric is among the more beautiful of the local species. Later tonight, I’ll show you some—I’ve got a jarful in my room.”

“Really? What are you doing with something like that?”

He shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. “They’re left over from the field exam we had at the end of the semester.”

“Ah.” With a satisfied smile, I understood that Thad’s “secret stash” was, as I’d hoped, nothing the least bit sinister or incriminating. I could now dismiss the nagging suspicion that had vexed me since Monday evening and focus squarely in the direction suggested by Dr. Formhals that afternoon.

Turning onto First Avenue, I asked, “Mind if I hang around the theater awhile? Just want to see how it’s going.”

“No problem.” He smiled faintly, having read my concern, if not my intention. “You can watch the whole show if you like.”

“Well, I’m always up for a bit of good theater.”

He laughed quietly. “Don’t count on it.” I was afraid he meant that he anticipated giving a lousy performance, but he explained, “Pickup rehearsals are always on the sloppy side. There’s no makeup or costumes—it’s just a refresher for lines and tech cues.”

“Ah.” Still, I’d stay. I wasn’t interested so much in watching the play as in observing the dynamics of the cast and crew. My plan was not to be entertained, but to unmask a killer.

Pulling into the parking lot near the stage door, I saw that most of the troupe had already arrived; many of the cars had begun to look familiar to me. I locked up my own car and crossed the lot with Thad. The stage door had been propped wide open, and I assumed that the theater had heated up again during the week. Though the days had begun to shorten and the sun hung low in the midsummer sky, it was going to be a hot night.

Inside, cast and crew milled together around the stage and in the auditorium. Because of the heat, almost everyone wore shorts and a T-shirt; I recalled Thad telling me that this rehearsal would not be in costume, which gave me a sudden worry: Would Joyce Winkler, the show’s costumer, be there that night? After all, she wasn’t needed. But then I noticed Joyce sitting with her daughter Nicole on the far side of the stage. Nicole looked bereft, as she had since Jason’s death, and Joyce spoke to her softly, stroking the girl’s honey-colored tresses.

Thad spotted Kwynn Wyman, who was busy at a folding table checking paperwork against a list (advance ticket sales, possibly), and walked over to join her. I descended a short stairway from the stage apron to the auditorium floor. Banks of lights flashed in sequence as circuits were tested from the control booth. Tommy Morales sat off by himself with his nose planted, as usual, in a script, readying himself to step into yet another new role—that of Ryan, Thad’s character. Walking up the center aisle, I passed the makeshift director’s table in the fifth row. Denny Diggins acknowledged me with a quiet, neutral “Mahk,” and I returned the scant greeting with an equally limp “Denny.”

I took a seat about two-thirds back and checked my watch; it was several minutes past seven. The upper rows of the auditorium were stifling, and I knew that I was in for a long, sticky evening. I had on the same dress slacks I’d worn to the office, as well as the same shirt, collar open, arms rolled up a few turns. I wished I’d had sense enough to wear something more comfortable. In the dim, warm light that glowed from the stage, I opened three more buttons below my collar.

“People!” said Denny, thwacking his hands. “Listen up. We’re running a bit late already, so gather round. I have a few announcements.” He picked up his clipboard and glanced through several pages of notes, waiting for his “people.”

As the cast and crew converged from scattered areas of the theater, I couldn’t help noting how the tone of things had changed in a week. The previous Wednesday at dress rehearsal, everyone had shared an upbeat mood of anticipation, itching to open the show. Tonight, though, the entire company seemed sullen and demoralized, wanting only to be done with it. What’s more, I noticed with dismay that the group was now clearly divided into factions, forming two clumps as they approached Denny’s table. On the one side were Thad, Kwynn, and a handful of other kids; on the other were Tommy Morales and everyone else.

“All right,” said Denny. “Let me begin by telling all of you how proud I am—of you, and of the show. We opened under taxing, tragic circumstances, and you rose to the challenge like pros. We’ve enjoyed good press and great audiences, and we’re assured of three more sellout crowds this weekend. It’s only natural to feel a bit of a midrun slump, so we all need to focus tonight, get back in the groove, and remember what we’re here for.”

When he paused for breath, a hand shot up, and a girl in the cast asked, “Mr. Diggins? If Tommy takes over as Ryan, who’ll play Dawson?” And the whole group broke into animated discussion. Thad, naturally, looked stunned.

So did Denny. “
Melissa
,” he scolded above the yammering, “nothing’s been said about a cast change.”

“But,” said someone else, a guy on the running crew, “what about the… you know, the contingencies?”

Denny managed to shush everyone. “I
know
we’ve had some difficulties, and I
know
there have been rumors of a cast change, but that’s pure speculation—at this point. There’s nothing to it.”

“ ‘At this point,’ ” someone repeated skeptically.

“Tonight,” said Denny, “we’re running the show exactly as before. Try to keep the pacing up, and let’s try to recapture some of that lost energy.”

Kwynn spoke up. “Don’t worry, Mr. Diggins. The show’s in good shape. Once we’re up and running again, we’ll look better than ever.” Pointedly, she added, “All of us.”

Thad squeezed her wrist, mouthing, Thanks.

Denny beamed. “Now
that’s
the attitude.” Flipping a page of his notes, he said, “There’s no ‘good’ time to talk about this, so I might as well mention it before we begin. As you may have heard, now that the coroner has issued his report, Jason’s body has been released for burial. The family announced this afternoon that the funeral will be held this Saturday morning. There’ll be a huge turnout, of course, and I assume everyone here plans to attend. I think it’d be a nice gesture if all of us from the Players Guild attended as a group—
en masse
, as it were.”

Couldn’t Denny have predicted the effect this little speech would have on the troupe? Certainly, there was no “good” time to make funeral plans for a murdered colleague—but
now
? With Kwynn’s help, he had just succeeded in psyching up the cast to put the past behind them and pull together for a rough rehearsal, but now his mention of “the coroner” and “Jason’s body” had brought the group back to the grim reality of what had happened.

A wave of chattering swept over the kids, punctuated by a chorus of moans. Nicole broke into loud sobs; Joyce hugged her daughter’s shoulders, looking off into space with a steely expression. Someone from Tommy’s faction started to say, “There wouldn’t be a funeral at all if—” but he stopped short of saying Thad’s name. A girl from Tommy’s crowd shouted over the noise to Denny, “I don’t think it’s right for
all
of us to be there,” meaning Thad was not welcome. Thad rested his forehead in one hand; Kwynn patted his hair and whispered something in his ear. Denny watched with a disapproving glare, waiting for the ruckus to fizzle out.

When the kids finally calmed down, Denny had sense enough to drop the topic he had so imprudently raised. “We’re here to rehearse,” he reminded everyone. “Places, please. And let’s give it some pizazz.”

As instructed, the cast disappeared backstage, the crew took their posts. The work lights onstage flicked out, the houselights dimmed, and after a few moments’ blackout, the stage lights rose and the scene was set. I heard the familiar opening lines of dialogue before Thad would make his entrance as Ryan. Everything was the same as at the two performances I’d attended, except for the mishmash of street clothes worn by the young actors.

Thad entered, and as soon as he opened his mouth, I knew he was in trouble. The events of the past week, coupled with the near unanimous hostility vented only minutes earlier by the rest of the cast, had taken their toll. Thad’s movements looked unsure and clumsy; his vocal delivery lacked projection and realism. Worst of all, he began to flub lines, and without the assistance of other cast members who should have fed him cues, he broke character during several agonizing silences.

Tommy Morales—need I mention?—was superb in his performance as Dawson. He was thoroughly in control and growing into the role, easily stealing the show. Watching Tommy’s interaction with Thad, I was grateful not to be responsible for the decision that Denny Diggins was surely weighing.

Thad was dragging the whole show down. Even I could tell that the pacing was off by a mile or two; act one was running many minutes longer than it should have. At last, though, the action arrived at the fight scene, the finale before intermission. Thad’s weeks of rehearsing the precisely choreographed climax were for naught. I could barely watch as he stumbled about the stage with Tommy, who did his best to give the scene a measure of dramatic tension and realism. Finally—mercifully—the phone started ringing, the lamp crashed from the table, Tommy recited Dawson’s threat, and upon his exit, the lights blacked out.

I recalled, a week earlier at dress rehearsal, Denny leaping to his feet at this point, shouting, “
Mah
-velous!”

Not tonight. “All right,” he said dryly as the houselights rose, “that was a bit rough. However, that’s the reason we rehearse—thank
God
there wasn’t an audience.” He glanced at his pile of notes and checked his watch. “Look, we’re running way late. Take a short break—ten minutes, please—then we’ll run act two. Notes at the end.” He sat back thinking, shaking his head.

The cast hopped down from the stage, stepping out of character. They mingled, chatted, and gulped soda, conspicuously avoiding Thad. Kwynn stuck by him though, ever cheery, trying to draw him into conversation with whoever was near. The theater seemed even hotter than before, and everyone was sweating. Thad was drenched from the rigors of the fight scene.

Though I had no idea what to say, I needed to offer Thad a few words of encouragement, so I rose from my seat and stepped down the aisle toward the front of the auditorium. Watching Thad and Kwynn, I noticed Tommy veer near them as he edged through the yakking little crowd. He was sweating even worse than Thad, and I chuckled at his bedraggled appearance.

Kwynn nabbed Tommy and managed to engage him in a bit of discussion with Thad. As I drew nearer, Kwynn was saying something, but stopped short, breaking into laughter. Staring bug-eyed at Tommy, she wafted her hands near him. “God, Tommy, when did
you
start wearing that cheap perfume?”

Hearing this comment, Nicole Winkler turned and whispered something to her mother.

Tommy shrugged off Kwynn’s question, excusing himself to go get a can of pop. As he brushed past me, I got a good whiff, and sure enough, Kwynn was right—he wore the same fruity fragrance I’d smelled in Jason’s room when the body was found, and it definitely wasn’t Vétiver. Tommy skittered away from me, and I cocked my head, watching, again associating that fragrance with some long-ago boyhood memory. What
was
that?

And suddenly, I knew. Everything began to make sense. Within a moment, the whole riddle seemed plain to me.

By now, Thad had noticed my approach and doubtless wondered what I’d have to say. As I now had some urgent business to attend to, I simply gave Thad a big smile and a thumbs-up, as if he’d just given the performance of his young career—he must have thought I was nuts. Then I spun on my heel and approached Denny at his director’s table.

“My!” he cooed. “Aren’t
we
looking rakish?”

I’d forgotten that most of my shirt was open. Fastening the lower buttons, I sat in the seat next to him and said, “Something’s happening, Denny. Could you do me a favor? After rehearsal, when you give your notes, could you ask Thad and Tommy to stay a few minutes late, then excuse the others?”

He gave me a sidelong glance. “It’s hot, Mahk. We’re running late as it is.”

“I know.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s important, Denny.”

With a woebegone sigh, he told me, “Oh… very well.”

Speaking low, I told him, “One more thing. After you’ve established with everyone that Thad and Tommy are staying late, pretend you’ve had an afterthought and ask Joyce Winkler to stay as well.”

He propped himself on one elbow, removed his glasses, and asked, “You want me to… ‘pretend’?”

“Yeah, pretend. You know—
acting
.”